Zugzwang
by In Pieces
Summary: Vergil took his choice, now it was Dante's turn to decide whether to move on or dwell in the past.


Dante hated quiet and clientless days where no one came bursting through the doors with a ransom demand and the phone kept unusually silent. Mostly because all the thoughts that he managed to bury deep in a forgotten place of his mind decided to resurface, plaguing him with a rising frustration that made him feel impotent.

With a sigh, he brought the half-empty bottle of beer to his lips and drowned the remaining bitter liquid before carelessly tossing it to the side, adding it to the pile of trash beside his desk.

With his mind close to the border of intoxication thanks to the cheap alcohol, he allowed his gloved hand to reach for a small piece of clothing buried in the confines of one the drawers on his desk. He dropped his feet from the smooth wooden surface of the desk and leaned back on the chair as he slowly opened the drawer and took the article he wanted to see again.  
The rational part of his mind told him that he should just let it be and focus on something else but no, he wanted to see it no matter how painful it was to dwell in the past.

Gingerly, he took the ripped leather glove and placed it on top of his desk. Everything was awfully quiet now as he stared at the object with a frown; the muffled sound of the static on TV was gone, the wind blowing hard outside seized momentarily, and the loud roars of the passing cars vanished completely. After the period of silence a bitter laugh escaped his lips, breaking the muteness.

They were so close when they were kids and now they were worlds apart. Literally.

They fought a lot in their childhood, there was no use denying that. Whether it was for this or that the twins would engage in a small combat, nothing too big to draw blood but it was enough for their mother to worry and break it off, scold them, and send them to separate rooms.

But those enraged moments never lasted, and it took little time for them to be playing around once again as if nothing happened. Eva admired that trait; Sparda just shrugged it off, claiming that 'kids were kids'.

Due to their quarrels, Eva was forced to buy the same toys for both of them. But Dante was more careless than Vergil, and his toys always ended up missing a limb or with deep scratches. He wasn't sure of what his younger-self thought at the times where he decided to switch his toys with Vergil's, hoping that he wouldn't notice. But he always did, and sometimes, he let him keep them.  
And when Dante recalled that after a trip to the grocery shop with their mother, he would offer Vergil half of his chocolate bar after the eldest had finished his treat. Vergil never declined his twin's noble offering.

And after all the things they been trough and everything they created and destroyed together, the only memento he had from his twin has that bloody leather glove; a nostalgic reminder of what happened and what could have been. He was positive that if the roles had reverted and he had been the one slicing up Vergil's hand, his twin wouldn't have kept the glove, he would have tossed it away. Dante couldn't do that.

One just can't forget memories, feelings, and family ties. You can't leave that behind; it will always be with you either providing you with security or regrets.

Even Vergil couldn't forget, or at least that what Dante wanted to believe.

If he had forgotten about him, about everything they lived through since they were mere infants, then he wouldn't have helped him in Temen-ni-gru when Arkham –Jester, or whatever the bastard's name was- attacked him. They fought side by side, aiding each other just like they had done countless times in the distant past to fulfill their little schemes.

It was refreshing to be at his side once again, momentarily forgetting their previous gory encounters.

With a sigh, he grasped the glove and inspected the cut closely. Was power really worth all that fighting, blood, sweat and tears? Or was he the one confused?

No, Vergil was the one that had a biased view of things….Right?

…Yes, he was.

Dante huffed as he tossed the glove in the surface of the desk, watching it land in front of his mother's picture.

It was funny how alike yet so different they were. Polar opposites. Day and night. Black and white.  
But now that he thought about it, black and blue had a better ring to it. Because, after all, they always ended up with bruises - not physical ones, that was impossible- ; mental bruises, call them emotional if you must. Not to mention pain, exhaustion and even a tad of hate.

_"But what difference does it make now?"  
_He's gone. There's not a single rumor or any clue that could indicate that Vergil was alive and well in Hell, if someone _could _actually be well in there. Maybe he was alive. Maybe he wasn't.  
That latter thought made Dante feel a strange and oppressive weight on his chest along with an emotion that he would rather not feel: dread. A fear so strong that not even alcohol could minimize, and that fleetingly brought him back to clarity from the cloud of intoxication.

Sometimes, he wondered what would have happened if Vergil came back with him instead of opting to stay in the Demon World, even if now there was no time to think about the 'what ifs'.

Maybe he would be there in his shop, glaring at him and reproaching his choices of being drunk at that time of the day. Maybe Vergil would say something among the lines of him being 'foolish and petty' and Dante would reply something about him 'having a stick way far up his ass'. Vergil wouldn't be amused, Dante probably would; and that could only foresee a verbal battle without a true winner.

Dante's eyed widened at the remembrance of an unspoken word that clung to the heavy air around him, a single word that he remembered oh-so clearly now after all those years: Zugzwang.

Vergil was an avid chess player, Dante knew how to play but found it tedious. Yet, he played the dammed game just to please his older brother. The times he heard that word being said by his brother almost in a quiet hush, giving him the slightest of hints to move on after Dante stared at the chessboard for a little too long having an inner debate with his pride, were more than he liked to admit.

That was Vergil's way to make him realize that no matter what he did he was going to lose, there was no chance that he could win now when all of his options would lead to failure.

And after all these years, he found himself in the same predicament against the same opponent. But this time, there was no quiet voice to tell him that it was time to make a choice, and no pleased expression from a face that was so similar to his own that sometimes he felt that he was staring right at a mirror. It was his own voice inside his head, logically trying to pick up all the broken pieces.

After a moment of silent hesitation, Dante stretched out his arm to grab the glove, letting one of his fingers smooth out the fabric of the cut. He closed his eyes and clenched the object on his hand tightly; wrinkling the fabric until it became a ball of leather to then place it again in the safety of the drawer.

Because the truth is- and always will be- that Dante would give anything to have his brother back safe and sound.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Devil May Cry and its characters belong to Capcom.


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